


Revenge is a Dish Best Served in Bed

by GoodyearTheShippyCat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Dirty Talk, Banter, Barebacking, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Cain Finally Gets Slapped, Face Slapping, Grinding, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Held Down, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Lube, M/M, Manipulation, Mean Girl Phobos, Name-Calling, Revenge, Revenge Sex, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Slapping, Sloppy Makeouts, Slut Shaming, Spanking, Swearing, Taunting, Threats of Violence, Using Appropriate Amounts of Lube, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 06:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15213581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat
Summary: Phobos comes up with a way to get back at Abel for making his lifeunbearablydifficult. It’s brilliant, obviously. And has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he secretly is a little bit attracted to his fighter. Nope. Nothing at all.





	Revenge is a Dish Best Served in Bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [violetnyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to the wonderful [violetnyte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetnyte)! I hope you enjoy this post-birthday trash ship PWP silliness. I swear this was going to be on time and everything—I planned ahead and started early! It was 80% finished in the first week of May! Then new job happened and derailed all my careful plans. But better late than never, right? Even if it has my most cringe-inducing title yet...
> 
> Trigger Warning: This is probably the roughest, most threat-laden smut I've written. It's still pretty mild as far as these things go, and obviously entirely consensual (if under-negotiated) from the characters' POVs. However, proceed at your own risk if you are triggered by slut shaming, verbal threats, or sexual situations that could be read as threatening.

Abel was going to pay for everything he’d done. For stealing Cook’s attention, and getting them all stuck on this suicide mission by volunteering like the teacher’s pet. Phobos knew exactly how he was going to get back at Abel for being so stupid and somehow—beyond any logical reason he could fathom—apparently attractive to every man on the ship. If everything went according to plan, Abel would know _exactly_ how it felt to have your boyfriend decide to chase after someone else.

Because he was going to fuck Cain.

Normally he wouldn’t sleep with trash, but for revenge he could make an exception. He’d seen the way the half-wild fighter had looked him up and down in the mess hall, in briefings, on the way to and from training simulations. Seducing him wouldn’t be difficult.

 

Phobos cornered Cain as the other man was coming from PT one morning, without his own nasty little fighter in tow, for once, thank goodness.

“I need to ask you something about Deimos,” he said, tugging at Cain’s arm to lead him into a nearby cargo bay where they wouldn’t be interrupted. Thankfully, it seemed the fighter had showered after his workout, if the lingering scent of soap and his still slightly damp hair was any indication.

“The fuck do you need to know about Deimos?” asked Cain, pulling his arm back out of Phobos’ grip and crossing it in front of his chest with the other one.

“Oh, nothing. That was just to get you alone,” said Phobos, waving a hand dismissively.

Cain didn’t respond with anything other than a disgusted curl of his upper lip, eyes darting around the cramped room—presumably to make sure they really were alone.

“Now,” Phobos began again, stepping toward the fighter one foot in front of the other, swaying his hips, “Let’s get straight to the point, shall we?”

Cain didn’t give any ground, didn’t back down from a _mere navigator_. Phobos wasn’t surprised; he hadn’t expected to send Cain running or back him against the wall. He did, however, use the opportunity to get right up in the fighter’s space, placing a hand on his chest.

Cain slapped it away.

“Fuck off.”

Phobos looked him right in the eye. They stood like that in silence for a drawn out moment, the only sounds in the room their breathing and a few muffled footsteps from outside in the hall. He brought his hand back up to rest on Cain’s chest again, feeling the regular rise and fall of it, the hard muscle beneath thin black fabric.

This time Cain didn’t bother to remove it. The fighter simply glared down at him, brows drawn together. Phobos leaned even closer, using his weight to push against the other man, who didn’t move an inch.

He brushed his lips against Cain’s, testing the waters. The fighter exhaled sharply through his nose, but didn’t push him away or make any other motion. Bringing their mouths together again, Phobos was gratified by the way Cain responded without hesitation. The fighter kissed him back, hungrily.

 _Now that’s more like it_.

“We’re going to fuck,” said Phobos when he pulled back, looking up at Cain, whose breath was coming quicker already.

“Heh. Awfully sure of that, huh?”

“Oh, I am. Trust me, I’m— _oof!_ ” Phobos was interrupted by the fighter grabbing hold of his wrist where it had been resting on his own chest, twisting it behind him to spin them both around. He was pinned up against one of the crates now, Cain behind him, looming close, hot breath tickling the back of his neck.

“Navigators. Such fucking sluts.” Cain spat out the words like something distasteful.

“Rude!”

“Fine, you want it so fucking bad, I guess I’ll do Deimos’ job for him.”

“Excuse me? How dare you even suggest that!” said Phobos, incensed, “Come on, let’s just go back to the bunks.”

“Tch. Why not right here?”

“Unlike you, I have standards. Getting bent over a filthy storage crate doesn’t meet them.”

“Well we’re not fucking in _my_ room. Abel’d get his panties in a twist.”

Phobos couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He turned on his heel sharply to hide the expression, walking in the direction of the lift.

“Ugh, _fine_. Porthos and Athos are running sims right now, anyway. We’ll use their room.”

“Why not yours, huh?”

Cain’s voice was a low growl in his ear as he prowled just behind him, breath smelling of stale smoke. _Disgusting. What does Abel even see in this stinky piece of trash?_

“I don’t fancy being stabbed to death in my sleep if your little rat walked in on us,” huffed Phobos, “Obviously.”

“Heh. Yeah, Deimos finds you annoying enough already,” said Cain, pulling out his pack of smokes as they strolled. “I don’t blame him.”

Phobos knocked the offending object out of Cain’s hands. The crumpled pack hit the ground, spilling some of its contents.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Cain snapped, crouching to pick up his precious cigarettes.

“Light one of those up and lose your chance to enjoy this fine piece of ass,” said Phobos, running his hands down his hips as he continued to sashay along the corridor.

“Dunno why I’m even fucking bothering,” Cain said, stashing the pack as he stepped into the elevator next to Phobos, who was holding the door with a look of exasperation.

“Pffft!” Phobos produced a package of mints from the pocket of his uniform, offering it to the fighter. “Here, have one of these and fix that revolting breath if you want to kiss me again.”

“Who says I want to kiss you again?” he replied, but accepted the proffered mints, popping one in his mouth.

Phobos hummed, raising one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Well, it is an effective way of shutting me up. Something you seem to feel strongly about.”

“I can think of a better way…” said the fighter, crowding into Phobos’ space, gaze smoldering.

 _How crass!_ Phobos thought, aiming a toothy grin up at Cain.

“You’d better play nice, dog.”

“Why? You gonna fight dirty?” asked Cain, obviously trying for nonchalant, but failing to conceal his wariness entirely.

“I thought that was _your_ job,” said Phobos, glad to end this pathetic attempt at a battle of wits now that they’d arrived at their destination. He slipped around Cain and out of the lift, quickly striding the short distance to Porthos’ room and keying the code into the panel by the door.

Cain followed him in, glancing around the room, assessing it for threats or some other ridiculous fighter instinct. _So suspicious! What have I done to deserve such blatant mistrust?_

Apparently satisfied that the room was secure or whatever else he was looking for, Cain’s attention returned to a now-impatient Phobos.

The mood shifted in an instant. Electricity practically arced through the air between them, heat in the fighter’s gaze. Phobos’ uniform suddenly felt far too warm, the thick fabric of the jacket itchy and confining. He stared back at Cain as he undid the fastenings—slowly, deliberately—exposing his neck and biting his lower lip with intention. Phobos hoped the action was familiar enough to elicit the desired response from Abel’s fighter; the other navigator was always chewing on his lip nervously. It was an unattractive habit, but one which could be harnessed to his advantage.

It worked like a charm. Cain was on him almost too quick to react; hot, firm lips on his, one rough and calloused hand travelling up the line of his bare neck, tipping his head up to meet the fighter’s, the other around his waist, pulling their bodies close.

_This mutt’s been housebroken, whether he realizes it or not._

Cain’s kisses were pushy, demanding; he dove in with his tongue after just the barest pretense of a warm up. Phobos matched his enthusiasm, hands running up the fighter’s back and tugging at his uniform jacket. The coarse fabric fell away with practised ease, Cain shrugging his shoulders to help. Once free of his sleeves, the colonist made quick work of the remaining fastenings on the white jacket impeding his exploration of Phobos’ neck.

The feeling of hard muscles beneath his fingers was pleasurable, as Phobos mapped out the sharp lines of Abel’s fighter. Cain’s wiry, lean frame a hot, hard line up against his own body. He could almost see the appeal… though Cain’s technique could use some work. Rather sloppy in his haste, and a lot of teeth; too much biting for Phobos’ liking.

Cain had been maneuvering them in the direction of the bunks. Phobos squirmed free of the fighter’s grip when his hands were busy with a fistful of white undershirt, having pulled it off just a moment earlier. He could feel his nipples peak in the cool air of the room, no longer pressed against Cain’s warm body.

“Where you going, baby?”

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Phobos called over his shoulder, opening the top drawer, where he knew Porthos always kept lube, “I’m not your _baby_ , you degenerate Martian.” He tossed the small plastic bottle onto the bottom bunk before walking back over.

“Fuck, fine, whatever. Wouldn’t want to deal with a prissy bitch like you every day, anyway,” said Cain, annoyance in his voice as he grabbed Phobos’ arm, reeling him back in for another bruising kiss.

Any rebuttal he might have thought to raise was lost to the growing desire between them. Phobos wasn’t even quite sure how he ended up straddling Cain on the lower bunk; the fighter leaning back against the wall, head tilted up to continue nipping at his lower lip before moving lower, sucking wet kisses along his throat. One big hand gripped his hip, another trailed through the silky fall of his hair. Phobos couldn’t help letting out a little moan, but it was cut short by sharp pain at the base of his skull.

“Ack! Get your hand out of my hair! I didn’t say you could pull it, you animal!”

“Tch! I thought you’d like it rough.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not your dirty whore of a navigator.”

“Heh, you think about what Abel’s like in bed a lot?” asked Cain. He was interrupted by Phobos’ audible gasp of abject horror before he could say any more.

_How impertinent! As if I don’t have better things to think about!_

The fighter just smirked, a glint of white teeth showing, before continuing, “Or did you two hook up and forget to invite me?”

Phobos recovered quickly: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No, huh? Doesn’t fucking surprise me. You’re really not his type.”

“Pfft. As if you’d know that, anyway. I’m _everyone’s_ type,” said Phobos, running his hand up Cain’s thigh and over the cock straining at dark uniform pants beneath him, “Case in point.”

Cain didn’t bother denying it, opting instead to pull Phobos roughly against him, capturing his mouth once more. Their lips met, all wet heat and growing desperation, hips rolling together. Both of the men gasped a little as their still-clothed erections dragged alongside each other. Strong fingers gripped Phobos’ sides, just over his hipbones, holding him in place as Cain rutted up against him. The friction from the fighter’s dick contrasting the sharper pressure of his fingertips.

Phobos put his own hands to a more productive use. Getting the high-necked tank up over Cain’s head, he was almost disappointed to see no real evidence of Abel on the fighter’s skin. There was a fading bruise or two on one collar bone, but they could just as easily have been from any of his physical training exercises. Compared to the other, darker marks and half-healed cuts—from sparring or just plain brawling, who knew with a brute like Cain—scattered across his bare torso and arms, they were nothing.

 _I can do better than that_ , thought Phobos, giving the fighter a smoldering glance before leaning in to kiss his chest. He mouthed along that barely-bruised jut of bone, lips dragging along the thin skin over top, then up to the juncture of neck and shoulder.

One sucking kiss turned vicious would be enough; Phobos bit down and could hear the growl from Cain’s throat right beside his ear.

“No fucking marks!” hissed the fighter, grabbing at Phobos’ hair again and tugging him off.

“Oh, you’re no fun…” drawled Phobos, tracing a finger down the other man’s chest and hooking it into the waistband of his uniform pants, just teasing at the skin beneath. “Why are you allowed to bite if I don’t get the same privilege?”

Cain snorted and went for his fly, undoing the zipper. “I’ll show you fun. You’re gonna have so much fucking fun you won’t be able to walk straight for days.” He snatched Phobos’ wrist and brought the teasing fingers lower to cup his cock through the fabric of black military issue briefs. He hissed with an entirely different tenor than before, breath escaping from between clenched teeth.

Phobos looked down at him and raised one eyebrow, “Now, why do I doubt that?” he said with a telling glance at the other man’s lap and a well-timed squeeze of his erection, getting a buck of Cain’s hips in response.

“Tch, you really such a stretched out slut that you need to get double-teamed by the Commanders just to get off?”

“Pfft, as if. I was merely wondering if you’ll even last long enough to be worth the trouble.”

“You’re just begging to choke on my dick, aren’t you?”

“Ugh, how rude! Could you be any more vulgar?”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” said Cain, surprising Phobos by pushing him over and looming above his sprawled form, “You’ll come first, I promise.”

The last word was nearly a threat, grated out as the fighter tugged his white uniform pants and underwear down over his hips in one go. Phobos was shocked that neither garment ended up with a tear from the forceful, graceless treatment.

He was almost more shocked when one strong hand gripped his cock tight, giving it a few quick strokes, bruised knuckles just grazing his stomach. Phobos hissed a bit, the attempt at being gentlemanly undermined by how rough Cain was.

“God, can’t you use some lube instead of practically yanking it clean off? I brought it over for a reason, you uncultured beast!”

“Tch! You really _are_ a spoiled fucking brat, huh?” said Cain, but relented, patting at the rumpled sheets to find the little bottle.

“Just because I’m not some lowlife colonist who’s never heard of lube hardly makes me spoiled,” replied Phobos, turning his nose up. He hissed again—but in a good way—when Cain’s hand returned to its ministrations, this time nicely slicked.

They lapsed into a temporary truce, silent save for their breathing, which was getting quicker and more ragged by the moment. Phobos watched through half-lidded eyes as Cain used his free hand to rub up and down the hard outline of his own cock with a matching rhythm. His arousal strained at the dark-coloured fatigues, springing free when he undid the zipper. He was going commando.

“Why I am not surprised by the fact that you couldn’t even be bothered to put on underwear?”

“Because you spend too much time thinking about my dick. C’mere.”

“If that were the case, I’d be disappointed that I’d built it up too much,” said Phobos, even as he rolled to his hands and knees, crawling towards the fighter with fluid motions.

“Bullshit. You’re drooling already.”

Phobos shrugged, letting the argument drop as he reached out to grasp Cain’s erection, which bobbed slightly between them, flushed an even deeper shade than the rest of his dusky skin. Teasing thin fingers along the underside of the hot, heavy length with just a hint of his nails, he couldn’t help admiring the shape of it. He gave an experimental stroke, pulling the other man’s foreskin up and then down, exposing the ruddy head of his cock, shiny with precome. Looking up at Cain, he flicked his tongue out to taste the tip; salt and musk filling his senses as he watched the fighter’s eyes glaze over slightly.

Cain leaned over Phobos’ back, reaching his already slicked hand around to rub circles between Phobos’ spread cheeks.

“Nnnnnhhh,” moaned Phobos, muffled slightly by Cain’s cock practically down his throat.

The fighter let out an answering noise and pressed one finger harder against his entrance. Phobos pressed back against Cain’s hand as he came up for air, consciously relaxing the ring of muscle to let the finger in deeper.

“Mmmm, don’t be stingy with that,” Phobos flapped one hand in the direction he’d last seen the lube, still busying himself with Cain’s cock.

“I know what I’m fucking doing,” Cain growled, snatching up the little bottle and pouring a generous amount over his fingers as they massaged and stretched.

Phobos tried to laugh in his usual sarcastic manner, but was foiled by Cain’s cock in his mouth. He pulled off with a slick _pop_.

“I’ll believe that about one of you knuckleheaded fighters when I see— ahhhh!” Phobos’ thought was interrupted by the sudden press of two fingers inside of him.

The angle was awkward with Cain bent over him, almost uncomfortable as his fingers probed. Cain must have realized, though, because he shuffled over on the narrow mattress to get behind him.

“Better?” he asked gruffly.

Phobos was almost surprised by how considerate Cain was being. It was such a contrast to his usual posturing and showboating.

“Nnnnn, yessss,” he said, pushing back onto the fighter’s fingers again, starting to enjoy himself in earnest.

“Heh, you navigators are all such needy sluts,” said Cain, letting his cock slide along the cleft of Phobos’ ass, just above his fingers.

The cool shock of fresh lube dribbling onto his skin was heightened next to the delicious heat of Cain’s length sliding through it, getting slicked up.

“Better than being sexually repressed colonists— _ouch!_ ” The slap Cain had given his ass stung. Phobos could feel where the skin tingled from the sharp contact, no doubt turning bright red.

“I’ll show you _sexually repressed_ ,” Cain threatened as he removed his fingers, leaving Phobos gasping slightly as they were replaced by the push of something thicker and blunter.

“Ahhhnnnn…” Phobos lost the thread of their repartee as Cain entered him, inch by slow inch, driving whatever response he’d been formulating out of his head. For a few moments, his senses narrowed to his panting breath, the stretch, and the heat between their bodies.

Cain’s hands fell heavily onto Phobos’ shoulders as he began to move; strong fingers digging in, not quite painful, but sharp enough to make him grit his teeth. One was still sticky with lube, which was starting to dry and become tacky along the skin above his collarbone.

“Gross. Couldn’t you even bother wiping your hand off first?”

“Quit bitching, you’ll forget all about it in a second,” said Cain, picking up the pace at which his hips rocked as he grumbled, “So fucking picky...”

“Well I’m _sorry_ that not all of us are slovenly animals.”

“Nah, just inbred clones.”

“Better than having– ah– borscht breath!” Phobos shot back, starting to move in counterpoint, rocking his hips to meet Cain’s on each thrust. He held back a sigh as the angle became just right, sparks of arousal travelling electric from his core out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“Heh, thought it was the cigarettes you didn’t like.”

“Ugh, even worse combined with root vegetables!”

“Y’know, you’re prettier when you don’t talk,” said Cain between grunts, leaning further over him and snapping his hips harder.

One of the fighter’s strong hands clamped over Phobos’ mouth, leaving his offended gasp nowhere to escape from. Instead, he snorted out a breath through his nose before opening his mouth as much as he could to clamp down on the meat of Cain’s palm. He hadn’t managed much force, but made his point nonetheless.

“Fuck! What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Cain, incredulous, losing the rhythm of his thrusts.

“I could ask the same of you,” huffed Phobos, craning his neck to aim an unamused look over his shoulder.

“Fine, fuck! Flip over, you scrawny piece of shit.” Cain punctuated his order with a shove to Phobos’ hip, sending the navigator sprawling on his side.

“Oooooohhhh! Someone sure likes to talk tough, but can’t even handle a little bite?” Phobos taunted Cain as he scrambled for purchase on the messy sheets. He tried to recover some of his dignity by turning the involuntary fall into what almost looked like an intentional choice to roll onto his back. Spreading his legs, he stared invitingly up at Cain. “What’s wrong? Don’t like a challenge in bed? Does Abel just roll over and take it?”

The fighter was on top of him again almost immediately, their slick cocks sliding against each other as he was crowded by messy dark hair and lean muscle. _Oh my, I must’ve struck a nerve_ , thought Phobos, relishing Cain’s fury and the press of his body up against him.

“Try another fucking move like that and I’ll bite your fucking tongue off, got it?” Cain didn’t wait for a response, crashing their lips together and shoving his own tongue deep into Phobos’ mouth, searching and forceful.

Phobos felt the fighter’s hips move, lining up again before pressing inside him. He closed his eyes, focused on the sensation of being filled; whatever witty quips he’d been toying with were now far from the front of his mind. He decided on the only response he could think of after his head cleared a little, Cain beginning to thrust again. Phobos nipped at Cain’s lower lip when the relentless assault of his wet, pushy kisses let up for a moment.

“Stubborn bitch. Really asking for it, aren’t you?”

“Mmmmm, yeah, why don’t you– nnnhh– give it to me, you sexy, ahh– hunk of borscht-for-brains man meat!”

“Ha!” Cain’s laugh startled even him, his hips stuttering a moment before he dug into the bed on either side of Phobos and began to pound into him harder than before. “You’re fucking insane, know that? Nnngh… no wonder they paired you up with Deimos.”

“Hmmmm, I wonder– unh– what it says about you,” mused Phobos, running his nails lightly down Cain’s broad back, digging them into the hard muscles of his ass as they flexed, “That you, mmmh… like that kind of crazy?”

“That I’m fucking horny, not stupid.”

“Why can’t you, ahhh, be both?”

“Fuck off,” Cain grunted, snapping at the flesh of Phobos’ shoulder with sharp teeth in between panting breaths, “You’re such a– nnnn– pretentious asshole.”

“Ooh, that’s an awfully big word… ohhhh… for a Neanderthal like you!”

“Narcissistic snob.”

“Primitive brute!”

“Stuck-up princess.”

_SMACK_

Phobos slapped Cain right across the cheek, the fighter’s head turning to one side with the force of the blow.

“How dare you call me by the same pet name you use for—!”

Cain had been startled by the slap for a moment, but moved quickly in response, pulling out of him without care. Phobos yelped as much from the discomfort as surprise at Cain pinning his arms to the bed above his head with one strong hand. The other closed around his throat, holding his head in place.

“What the fuck was that for?” growled the fighter in a tone that was whining and menacing at the same time.

“Please, you’re probably long overdue for one of those,” said Phobos, his attempt at an indifferent shrug spoiled slightly by the awkward position of his arms on either side of his head.

“I don’t usually hit navigators,” said Cain, low and dangerous, “But I’m not gonna pull my fucking punches if you keep this shit up.” His warning was underscored by the hand around Phobos’ neck moving up to rest along the side of his pale face. Cain gave it a light, mocking slap before returning it to rest over his throat, a slightly terrifying, positively devious smile on his face.

Phobos felt his cheeks heat, matching the red tone of Cain’s where his palm had made contact. His whole body felt too hot, thrumming with excitement as the fighter leaned over him, huffs of breath scorching over his face. His own breathing was quick and uneven; a little scared and immensely turned on. His cock leaked steadily against his stomach, begging to be touched.

Cain noticed, of course. Even the slowest of the dullard fighters would be hard-pressed not to see what was right in front of them like this.

“What happened to not liking it rough?” said Cain, his voice taking on a teasing edge as he lorded the observation over Phobos, “Little lying bitch.”

Phobos struggled but Cain was strong, grip only digging in more as his writhing increased. He might even have been stronger than Porthos, though he didn’t look it; the rangy knots of muscle along his arms and back nothing like the statuesque perfection of Phobos’ fellow navigator. Yet, somehow extremely compelling—all that wild, raw energy, unrefined and rough around the edges—holding him down like trapped prey.

Dark colonial eyes bored into his as Cain spread his thighs again by insinuating his own strong legs between them.

“What are you waiting for, fighter? Not going soft on me already?” Phobos forced out from where his throat was held tight.

Cain growled and shoved back into him with no attempt to be gentle. Phobos gasped, mind going blank for a moment with the mix of pain and pleasure.

“Come on, then, hahhh– fuck me like you mean it!”

“Nggh!” Cain grunted with the exertion of holding Phobos in place as he picked up the pace. “Needy little slut! Haah… haah… you’re gonna regret this tomorrow.”

“Whatever! I could probably– nnnnhh– fall asleep right now if you weren’t– ah!– so annoying.”

Cain let out another growl, the pressure of his hand increasing around Phobos’ neck.

Phobos shivered as beads of sweat trailed down his back, the sensation standing out in sharp relief amongst the almost overwhelming mix of sensory inputs. Cain was all over him, surrounding him, sharing the same air as they both panted, sticky strands of black and turquoise hair tickling his forehead. The stretch and push and sweet burn of the fighter’s cock pounding into him with unrelenting force. He could feel a sensation of pressure building at the base of his spine, the knot of heat below his pelvis throbbing up the base of his own arousal.

 _Oh! There is_ no _way I’m going to let him finish this before I get what I need!_

Hooking his ankles around the back of Cain’s thighs, Phobos used his feet to push for even faster, deeper thrusts. The entire bunk felt like it was moving with them, the thin, strong metal platform shaking slightly with each snap of Cain’s hips.

“Heh, nnnn… finally shut you up?” asked Cain, starting to nip along the underside of Phobos’ jaw, just above where his fingers still gripped around his Adam’s apple.

“Nnnnhhh… no. You, ahh– wish!”

“Fucking hell,” Cain swore, getting out his next words between heaving breaths, “You… asked… for it.” The fighter let go of his throat, hand travelling up around the back of his neck instead.

Phobos felt strong fingers grip the hair at the back of his skull, and flinched ahead of the tug he knew was coming. _If I end up with split ends, he’s going to pay double for this!_

Cain yanked his head to the side, so Phobos’ face was practically buried in the crook of his own arm, still held firmly in place above him on the bed. The sweat-damp skin of the inside of his bicep dragged salty across his lips with each thrust from the fighter.

Pulling against the fist in his hair made his scalp burn, but Phobos managed to get his cheek resting up on top of his arm. He didn’t have much longer, his orgasm building to the point of no return as Cain continued hammering into him, grazing just the right spot every few thrusts.

“How are you– annh– supposed to beat the fucking ‘Terons… nnnmm… if you can’t even– ohhhhh… conquer one navigator?”

That was all he needed to say. Cain brought his mouth down onto the exposed arch of Phobos’ neck, close to where it met his shoulder.

“Ahhhhhhnnnn! Yessssss!” His pulse throbbed underneath the skin clamped in the teeth of the fighter, beating in tandem with his cock as he reached his climax. Heart pumping, breath caught in his throat, sore with pleasure, he was barely aware of Cain’s response.

The fighter’s mouth moved on, sucking wet marks along his shoulder, barely resembling kisses any more as his movements became erratic. With a loud groan and a bitten off “Fuuuuuuccck mmmm—” he came, and his grip slackened.

Phobos lowered his shaking arms to rest on his own chest as Cain flopped down to one side, a rattling breath leaving him unceremoniously as the fighter’s cock did. His lungs began to even out their labouring attempts to get oxygen, and his head cleared as blood began returning to its usual circulation patterns.

“Heh…. ahhh… told you I’d make sure you came first,” Cain said, smirking down at him as he caught his breath.

Lying there with his eyes half-closed, completely spent, he decided to let Cain have his little victory. One battle didn’t change the outcome of the war.

 

When Phobos got back to his own quarters, Deimos regarded him coolly from the upper bunk.

“What are you looking at?” he said, rummaging for a change of clothes before walking over to the head, “I’m taking a shower. You’d better not have used all the hot water, Deimos!”

Looking in the mirror, Phobos admired the darkening hickey on his pale neck, surrounded by faint fingerprints which might disappear by tomorrow. The angry mark was low enough to just be concealed by his uniform—a surprisingly considerate choice on Cain’s part. He tilted his head and smiled at his own reflection. It was _also_ high enough to be exposed in all its purple glory when he held his head just so; peeking out between the ends of his hair and the collar of his jacket.

That garish sight and a few well chosen words next time he saw Abel would surely be clear enough. _Yes, this will do nicely._

END


End file.
